


'Tis the Season (Spike/Angel) R

by Spike_1790



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-01
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:19:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spike_1790/pseuds/Spike_1790





	'Tis the Season (Spike/Angel) R

**Title** : 'Tis the Season  
 **Fandom** : AtS  
 **Pairing** : none  
 **Warnings** : bad language  
 **Rating** : R  
 **Prompt:** #332- If You Can't Beat Them, Trick Them @ [](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/profile)[**tamingthemuse**](http://tamingthemuse.livejournal.com/) & Day 1 @ [](http://wishlist-fic.livejournal.com/profile)[**wishlist_fic**](http://wishlist-fic.livejournal.com/)  
 **A/N:** Unbeta'd but partially proofread. [](http://verucasalt123.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://verucasalt123.livejournal.com/)**verucasalt123** asked for: "AtS, Spike/Angel, throw in the rest of the S5 gang (Fred, Gunn, Wesley,  
Lorne) and sit them all down for Christmas dinner. Let's see how that turns out."  
 **Disclaimer:** I don't own the boys. Joss won't let me have them. Bad Joss. Grrr...

 **Summary** : Christmas dinner with Spike and Angel

  


“Angelcakes, I didn't know you could cook!”

  


Yeah, that's right. Give the poof all the credit. I scowl at Lorne. Everyone looks surprised, actually. I don't blame them- the last time I ate something Peaches cooked it was vile. I couldn't work out whether it even started out as ingredients or whether it really was just a lump of green slime he'd found in the sewer. I later found out it was meant to be chicken casserole.

  


This, however, this is my work. Just look at it all- the turkey looks like something out of a Good Food magazine, and there's roast potatoes, peas, carrots, and those little pigs in blankets that Gunn made a passing comment about sometime last month. I even set the table myself, because who could really trust the poof to do something as important as that? He'd probably smear everything in that horribly poofy hair gel he likes so much.

  


I don't think Christmas is high of Angel's list of priorities. He 'forgot' about the office party until me and Wesley forcibly removed him from his penthouse. He wasn't going to put up a tree either until I pointed out that the tree would either go up in the lobby, or go up his oversized, squishy arse. Luckily Harmony had sent out the company Christmas cards to everyone that should have got one and, likely as not, most of LA.

  


So what are we all doing here sat at Angel's dining table? Well, that was courtesy of yours truly. And it wasn't easy, let me tell you. There's a lot of planning that goes into making a meal like this, including a list of imaginary demons that are terrorising various parts of the city. Yeah, I had Angel out all night just so I could get the stuff from my pitiful little apartment to his place.

  


I had to rely on Harmony to get most of this done. She's the only one of the lot of 'em that knows His Poofiness didn't do all this by his lonesome. Part of me was hoping that one of them- Fred or Lorne probably- would realise Angel can neither cook nor stand Christmas and give me the credit, but that ain't going to happen.

Anyway, everyone's sat down and there's eggnog being drunk, and Peaches stands up and makes a toast about family and absent friends or some such rot. I wish he'd just get on with carving the bloody turkey. Not that I need to eat, of course. But I'm not one to hold back from enjoying the good things just because I don't _need_ them. Who _needs_ music, or fast cars, or the things that make life, unlife, whatever, fun? I sure as hell won't hold back just because Peaches thinks punishment equals atonement. 

Ah, here we go. Time to eat. I pile my plate high with some of everything and smother it in gravy. Angel gives me a warning look to behave.  
Like  _I_ don't have table manners! Bloody hell, I was raised in the age of impeccable manners- he's the one that's likely to start drinking too much, not use his cutlery and start regaling us with Irish ballads about potatoes or river dance or something equally depressing. 

  


Everything goes fine for the first course. Better than fine, actually. I'd go as far as to class it as a success. See? I can plan something without  
bollocksing it up. Anyway, Wesley makes a comment about Christmas pudding and Angel pales. Looks like he might care a little bit about  
this Christmas lark after all, 'cause I didn't think it was possible for him to get any paler. I roll my eyes and mouth the word 'kitchen'. He gives me an odd look and mouths back 'kitten?'. Sometimes I could throttle him... 

  


Of course, that's when things go tits up. Despite all the wards on the building, and the security teams, and the surveillance cameras,  
there's always a way for things to go tits up. This time, its in the form of a skinny, scaly demon that quite literally bursts through the  
door. Splinters of wood fly through the air and me and Angel automatically duck for cover under the table. 

  


And then something happens that I wouldn't have thought possible if I hadn't been peeking out under the tablecloth. Fred- meek, mild little  
Fred- grabs the centrepiece from the table, the one with the pretty red candles, and she throws it at the demon, roaring like a bloody  
lion. The flame catches on the scaly demon's clothes and in a matter of seconds, all that's left is a slightly smoking skeleton.

  


Me and Peaches climb out from under the table, trying to salvage the remains of our dignity. I clear my throat. Then Angel laughs. One of those real laughs that I've only ever heard from his unsouled counterpart. Everyone stares at him, myself included. Then we're all laughing. 

  


Eventually we manage to find our way to our seats as the chuckles die down. I get the Christmas pudding from the kitchen along with a couple of other cakes and cookie style things that I'm too much of a man to admit to cooking myself. 

  


The rest of the meal goes smoothly. We eat out cake and drink eggnog and mulled wine while the corpse of a demon smoulders quietly beside us. If anyone said, even a year ago that I'd be making dinner for Angel and his pet humans, I'd have said they were off their nut. But I  
guess if you can't beat them, you can still trick them into thinking you're still the Big Bad. 


End file.
